Journey to the Centre of (Molly's) World in (Less than) 80 Days
by 800 words of heaven
Summary: What happens when an unstoppable force meets and immovable object? The unstoppable force stops and the immovable object moves, obviously.
1. King of Anything

_Who cares if you disagree?_

 _You are not me_

 _Who made you king of anything?_

* * *

 _We accept the love we think we deserve._ Molly Weasley sat at the rickety little table across from her boyfriend, and thought that whoever had said that might have been onto something. She took a sip from her almost-tepid coffee and a slight frown creased her brow. Her boyfriend – or soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, if he ever got finished with his rejection speech – was _still_ prattling on.

"It's just not working out anymore Mols." She hated it when anyone but her parents called her Mols. The jerk sitting in front of her most definitely did not have the privilege to do so.

"It's not you, it's me." _That_ was a blatant lie, and both of them knew it. However, Molly couldn't work herself up to really care. He should have realised that things were going to be different after Hogwarts. They weren't in school anymore. There was nothing forcing them to be in each other's company now. Not that it had been like that in the beginning.

"I just don't think we want the same things in life." With this latest statement, Molly wholeheartedly agreed. She didn't know what she wanted from life, exactly, but it most certainly wasn't the man sitting across from her anymore. The idiot had dragged them to _his_ favourite café to dump her. If she hadn't hated the place before, what with its lukewarm instant coffee, stale shortbread, rickety wrought-iron tables and chairs, and a front window that was so clean that the reflected sunlight was mildly blinding – she did now. She was glad that she'd never have to see the inside of this stupid little place ever again _if only he would just shut up already._

She could have stopped him, she knew that. She could have just got up and left. As the jilted party, she was well within her rights to do so. But, whilst the coffee was way below par, it was unsurprisingly, over-priced, so Molly felt obliged to at least finish it. Besides, the beverage was so cold that all the sugar had sunk to the bottom. That was something to look forward to.

She also thought about that sad, stupid quote about love. Had it been Lily who'd told it to her over the summer after spending almost all of her time reading _The New York Times' Best Selling List_ , or had it been Albus' recently-returned girlfriend, who was prone to sprouting random things that would make sense later?

It had to have been Lily. She was quite sure that Al's girlfriend wasn't the type to read _The New York Times' Best Selling List_ indiscriminately.

No matter who had said it, the point still stood. The truth was, Molly Weasley really thought this was the best she could do. It wasn't too shabby, if one was being completely objective. They'd been going out since Hogwarts – and they'd graduated two years ago. She was beginning her third and final year of Auror training, and he was beginning his third and final year of Healer training. Until July, they'd even been considering moving in together.

Then something had changed. Molly had bumped into an old dorm-buddy from her days at Hogwarts. Agatha Painsley-Bumbershuffle had somehow convinced Molly to have lunch to "catch up". Then, Agatha Painsley-Bumbershuffle had proceeded to spend the next forty-five minutes telling Molly _in minute detail_ all about her perfect life. She was certain that she was _going high places_ in the Ministry, having followed a similar path to the one her father Percy Weasley, who was now at those fabled high places. She had become recently engaged to the son of a businessman with a billion-galleon (US, mind. No one would be so crass as to measure their corporate wealth in terms of British currency) empire. When Molly had ventured to ask if the son had followed in daddy dearest's footsteps, she'd learnt that the poor fellow had actually run away from his overbearing family, and was currently interning as a low-ranking reporter for the _Daily Prophet_. The unlucky blighter had had the misfortune to run into Agatha Painsley-Bumbershuffle however – Agatha _assured_ Molly that they would both be returning to the States for Christmas, where she and the poor boy's father would convince him to join the family business. For the bloke's sake, Molly hoped that the family business was undertaking. Imagine the discount on his coffin!

And whilst Agatha had droned on and on, Molly had begun thinking. Is this what was in store for her life, too? A perfect career, with a perfect husband, and a perfect home, where even the household cat would be perfect? Was this really what Molly had signed up for all those years ago when her father had convinced her that the best grades and a shiny Prefect's badge was the only way to succeed in life?

If becoming like Agatha, or spending the rest of her life with someone so ridiculously perfect as the jerk who was currently dumping her were also part of that success plan, then was it really worth it?

 _We accept the love we think we deserve._

 _Well,_ Molly Weasley decided as she drained her now stone-cold coffee and looked up to see her ex-boyfriend _still_ jabbering on. _We'll see about that_.

Because Molly Weasley had made up her mind. She _was_ going to accept the love she thought she deserved. She was going to accept a whole lot more than love – she didn't know quite what all that was, but she was going to accept it. Hell, she'd reach across the proverbial table and snatch it all up into her greedy arms if she had to.

One thing she knew for certain though. She definitely deserved a whole lot more than what she was getting now. And that was just not on.

Molly Weasley was going to change her life, and she was going to do it _now_.

* * *

 _Perhaps I should have decided to change my life tomorrow_ , Molly thought as she found herself, once again, at a table.

The table in question was much nicer than the one of the afternoon, but Molly was beginning to think that tables were going to play a significant role in all her life decisions. Like, right now, she was going to tell her parents that she'd dumped her boring boyfriend's perfectly boring arse – at least, she _had_ dumped him in her head. As the jilted party she was allowed to decorate the break-up as she saw fit. No one would think lowly of her if she did. Much.

Yes. She was going to do it. Just as soon as there was a lull in the conversation.

"Pass the salt," her father said from her right. Okay, there wasn't much conversation, as it was only her and her parents for dinner. Her younger sister, Lucy, had just left for her fifth year at Hogwarts last week.

Molly passed the salt. Still, she should wait for _something_ before sharing her news.

"How was your day, Mols?" Her father asked, jiggling the salt shaker vigorously over the lamb risotto. After his last visit to the Healers for a general check-up, he really shouldn't have, but Percy Weasley had always believed that nothing should come between a man and his salt – not even dangerously high sodium levels.

"I broke up with Johnny," Molly blurted out.

The salt shaker stopped moving.

Her mother's fork and knife clattered to meet her plate.

Molly internally winced. Oh, why couldn't she have learnt something off Lucy? Her little sister was a master at manipulating the situation to her advantage. Molly wasn't sure if this was the reason she was in Slytherin, or being in Slytherin had taught her to be crafty. Perhaps it was a little of both. Either way, Molly fervently hoped that one day, she'd learn how to break news in a way which didn't make everyone act like she'd declared that she had a terminal illness.

"What?" her mother cried, hands flying to her cheeks.

"Well… he broke up with me, actually," Molly replied casually, shuffling her pile of uneaten risotto from one end of her plate to the other.

"Did you two get into a fight?" her father asked gently.

Molly shook her head, still absorbed in her task. Every last grain had to make it to the other side before she could start shuffling it all back.

"Then why would he… Sweetheart!" Audrey cried. Not for the first time, Molly wondered how someone as staid and reserved as her father had managed to fall in love, marry, and have children with a woman who had such a flair for the dramatic arts.

And to think, they'd actually eloped. It must have been her mother's idea.

"Mum – it's okay," Molly tried to explain. "This is a good thing."

"How on earth is this a good thing?" Audrey cried. "Who will marry you now?"

"Mum! I'm twenty years old!"

"Exactly! You don't have long before your biological clock stops ticking!"

Molly looked at her father for help, who simply shrugged and stabbed a piece of lamb with his fork. She was on her own, then.

"You were almost thirty when you had me," Molly reminded her mother.

"Well… that's hardly the point here!" her mother spluttered. "I was lucky enough to find your father when I did!"  
Molly shrugged. "I've still got time, then."

"But – but –"

"What I think your mother is trying to say," Percy interjected, having finally chewed his piece of lamb. "Is that she thought –" A glance down the table told him that wasn't the right thing to say. " _We_ thought that you'd already found someone. Sweetheart," Now Percy dropped his fork into his plate and reached for his daughter's hand. "We thought you were happy."

"Well, I'm not!" Molly cried.

Another shocked silence.

Another internal wince. There were _ways_ to say such things – even Molly knew there was no need just to shout them at the first chance she got.

Her mother cried out and flung her hands in the air, forgetting that she'd picked up her fork again. It flew in a beautiful arc behind Audrey's head, only to clatter to an ungraceful stop on the wooden floor. Molly couldn't help but feel as if this was some sort of metaphor for her life.

"Mols…" her father began, but apparently couldn't think of anything else to say. Molly sympathised. What could one say to their daughter after such a declaration?

"What do you mean you're _not happy?_ " her mother screeched. Apparently, her mother did not share that belief with her husband.

"I'm not happy means I'm _not happy_!" Molly cried. And to think, her teachers at Hogwarts used to commend her for her beautifully worded essays. Her Potions professor had confided that he'd almost cried once after a particularly moving piece on the twelve uses of dragon's blood.

"Sweetheart…" her father was still stuck saying only endearments, so pitying him, Molly decided to elaborate.

"My job sucks! I train almost twelve hours a day, and when I get home, what do I do? Oh, more training! I haven't had a single day off since the day I started fifth year at Hogwarts, because I'm _terrified_ that if I don't study _every single minute_ I'm going to fall behind, or those stupid Prefect rosters won't be done, or that I'll fail my poisons exam! And don't even get me started on Johnny! It was all _'oh, I saved a man from dying today'_ or _'why don't you do something with your hair, Molly? Red really isn't your colour'_ or _'you never have time for me anymore. Don't you love me?'_! And for what? So that I could end up like Agatha Painsley-Bumbershuffle, with her perfect career, and her perfect fiancé, and her _perfect life_? No thank you!" Molly heaved a deep breath in the ensuing silence. Both her parents sat frozen in their seats, the lamb risotto forgotten on their plates, and stared at her in surprise, and something that might have been fear if Molly were the type to inspire such strong emotions in people.

Her breathing back in control, Molly returned to shuttling the cold rice across her plate. She viciously flicked a piece of lamb that got in her way. It flew off across the plate, only to hit the edge, then plop back into the mound of risotto rice from whence it came.

"Do you want a holiday?" her mother asked brightly.

"Who is Agatha Painsley-Bumbershuffle?" her father asked bemusedly.

Molly sighed. It seemed as if that piece of lamb had provided her with another metaphor for her life.

Her plan to get what she deserved was most decidedly _not_ off to a good start.

* * *

 **T** **his chapter contains the quote** **"We accept the love we think we deserve" from Stephen Chbosky's book** _ **The Perks of Being a Wallflower. The New York Times' Best Selling List**_ **is owned by** _ **The New York Times**_ **. The** **title of this chapter, as well as the lyrics in the summary are from the song "King of Anything" by Sara Bareilles.**


	2. Counting Stars

_I see this life like a swinging vine_

 _Swing my heart across the line_

 _In my face is flashing signs_

 _Seek it out and ye shall find_

* * *

Heath was having the most wonderful dream. There was a pack on his back, a camera around his neck, and the long road of adventure ahead. It didn't really matter exactly where he was – _anywhere_ but _here_ was great.

"Dude." A rude shake of Heath's upper arm promptly brought him back from the misty isles of early morning dreams to the dreary shores of reality.

" _Dude."_ Another rude shake.

Heath sighed and rolled over and away from the rude shaker.

"Dude, come _on_. Wake _up_!" This time, there was a shove. Heath was surprised at the strength of it, especially considering the early hour.

With a growl, Heath rolled back around to face the person who had such inhuman strength so early in the morning. " _What?"_

Satisfied that Heath was now finally awake, Raj stepped away from his roommate's bed. "It's time to get up. Do you know what time it is?"

Heath sighed. He hadn't moved across the Pond away from his family, just to end up living with a mother-substitute.

"No. What time is it?" Heath asked, swinging his legs out of bed. The ground moved under his bare feet. The cold hardwood resembled the deck of a galleon cutting through the waves on one of the seven seas more than the floor of a dingy two-bedroom apartment, or _flat_ , as the locals liked to call it.

Heath blinked. How much had he had to drink last night?

"How much did I have to drink last night?" Heath asked as he followed Raj into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee that Raj had already brewed.

Raj cracked two eggs into a frying pan before answering, "A lot, I suppose."

"And you didn't stop me?" Heath wasn't exactly sure if Raj did it because he was his best buddy, or because his mothering instincts took over, but usually, he stopped Heath from imbibing before it reached the stage where he hugged a Santa and called it Dumbledore. Heath frowned at the memory. Why had there been a Santa at the pub in July? And why on earth had he called it Dumbledore? It wasn't as if Heath had known the old codger personally, considering that he'd kicked the bucket almost thirty years ago.

Raj shrugged as he flipped one of the eggs over. "Considering what you'd just done, I thought you might've needed it."

Heath snorted. Breaking up with his fiancée hadn't been as hard as he'd thought. Once all the screaming and crying and throwing things at his head had finished, it had been almost okay. Or was that what he'd convinced himself to believe after his fifth whiskey? Heath frowned again.

And then he yelped and ran for his typewriter on the dining table.

Raj looked over from where he was now frying some tomato halves and mushrooms in mild interest.

"My article!" Heath shrieked.

Raj raised an eyebrow and returned to his tomatoes and mushrooms.

Heath turned accusing eyes on his friend. "Why did you let me go out last night when I still had to finish this article?"

"You insisted on going out," Raj shrugged. He divvied up the tomatoes and mushrooms onto two plates, already laden with toast and eggs.

"And you _let_ me?"

Raj shrugged again and dug into his eggs, sunny side up. "You told me that you'd finish it once we got home."

Heath rolled his eyes. "After a night of drinking my face off, you actually _believed_ that I'd get home and finish my homework?"

"You didn't drink your face off," Raj replied calmly. Heath wondered where he'd learnt that sort of cool. First, he'd thought it simply British reserve, but it wasn't just that. Raj said that he'd learnt it from his dad. Apparently, no one was better at British reserve than British-Indian men. "Did you finish it, by the way?"

"What do _you_ think?"

Raj shrugged again. "You said that you would last night once we came home, after you took a nap."

"A _nap_?" Heath asked incredulously.

"Yeah. I believe your exact words were, once I reminded you that you still had an article to write, 'With great power comes great need to take a nap. Wake me up later'." Raj did a surprisingly good job of imitating Heath's clipped American tones after he'd had a drink or ten.

"That doesn't even make sense! What great power?"

"I didn't ask. You were in a drunken stupor. I assumed you were referring to the power of breaking women's fragile hearts."

"Does my ex-fiancée strike you as the type to have a fragile heart?"

"No, not really," Raj said with what Heath could only call an evil grin.

"Why didn't you wake me up later, then?" Heath asked, pouting as he picked up the sheet still stuck in the typewriter.

Raj raised a single eyebrow, as if to say, ' _Do I look like your mother?'_

"Fair point," Heath conceded as he read what he'd written so far. His eyebrows rose further and further up his forehead as he approached the end of the paper.

"Mate, your eyebrows are about to disappear into your hair," Raj said. He didn't sound particularly worried, but it was always a little difficult to tell with Raj. Another consequence of all that British-Indian reserve.

"This is amazing."

"You actually wrote something worth reading?" Raj asked, just a touch too innocently.

Heath shot him a look. " _No_. I actually finished it."

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"Are you telling me that once you stumbled your alcohol-soaked body into bed for a _nap_ –" There was a subtle inflection at the word 'nap'. It was about as close as Raj got to a context clue. "– you got up again, finished your article, then conked out for good?"

"Yes!"

Raj considered this for a moment in contemplative silence, then asked, "Is it any good?"

* * *

"I really appreciate you doing this for me, sir," Heath blabbered as he followed the man in front of him through what could only be described as a labyrinth of bureaucracy and paperwork that was the Auror department at the British Ministry of Magic.

Dennis Creevey, the aforementioned man, simply grunted in response. Not a man of many words was Dennis Creevey, chief instructor of the Aurors-in-training. Heath was glad for the few moments of silence. It felt as if he'd spent the last few months doing nothing but sweet-talking. However, he couldn't tamp down on his growing excitement. This was the first step on his hopefully long and adventure-filled journey of freedom. The thought made him almost giddy.

Dennis Creevey suddenly stopped. Heath, still lost in his blissful thoughts, which seemed to mostly involve peeing through a sock in order to have water to drink, didn't notice until it was too late. He walked right into Dennis Creevey's back, becoming intimately acquainted with muscle in sinew honed over years of hard work catching bad guys. Or so Heath assumed.

"We're here," Dennis Creevey said, although it was a little difficult to tell, considering the sound came out more as a deep rumble. Heath imagined that if mountains could talk, they might sound something like Dennis Creevey.

Heath peered around his looming bulk to see where exactly 'here' was. It appeared to be a mountain range of paperwork of a size to rival that of the Andes. Well.

"Weasley!" Dennis Creevey barked.

Something popped out from behind the mountain range, and Heath stopped himself from screaming, "Fire!" a split second before it might have been too late. What he'd first thought was the beginning of a forest fire turned out to be, in fact, a shock of fiery red hair.

"Sir!" the hair squeaked. The Auror department at the British Ministry of Magic was shaping out to be an incredibly strange place. A quick shake of the mop revealed that it sprouted from the top of a pale oval face. Still partially obscured behind the talking mountain, Heath felt sufficiently invisible to study the person who would be partially responsible for his safety for the foreseeable future.

She – and judging by the size, or rather more politically correctly, _shape_ of her chest – she _was_ a she – was of average height and build. The combination of pale skin and smattering of freckles across her aquiline nose suggested that they'd need to pack _a lot_ of sunscreen. His eyes were once again caught up in the magnificent glory of her hair. It was just so… _red_. Heath's gaze wandered back down towards her face, only to be arrested by a rather aggressive stare from a pair of hazel eyes. Apparently she had noticed his regard.

Heath gave the young woman his most winning smile in response, going for one part sincerity, one part confidence, and one part charm. It had been this very smile that had clinched him his current assignment.

"Weasley, this is…" Dennis Creevey trailed off, and Heath realised that this was his cue to speak.

"Heath!" he said, stepping around Dennis Creevey and reaching through a gap in the piles of paper mountains to shake the woman's hand.

"Molly Weasley," the woman offered somewhat cautiously, although her handshake was firm and her eyes still hadn't quite given up the glare.

"The Auror department has received an… unusual… request from the _Daily Prophet_ ," Dennis Creevey began. He paused, and looked down at Heath.

Heath looked up at Dennis Creevey. He really was quite tall. Almost two meters, if Heath had to hazard a guess.

A brief awkward silence ensued before Heath realised that this was his cue to, once again, speak.

"Oh! Um… right! Well, I write for the _Daily Prophet_ you see, and the paper's decided to launch a brand new lifestyle magazine." Heath wondered if he sounded as if he was blabbering. The mountain was still standing silently beside him, but Molly Weasley's glare had gone. Almost.

Heath continued, "So one of the articles is going to be a seven-part feature piece on the great wonders of the world."

Heath paused here to see how this news was received. Dennis Creevey, predictably, hadn't moved a muscle. Molly Weasley however, raised a single eyebrow, and Heath was weirdly reminded of Raj and his enviable skill to do the same. It seemed that those chosen few who possessed the skill to raise just one eyebrow all used it to convey the same sort of emotion. _Rather unimaginative_ , Heath thought.

"The great wonders of the world?" Weasley asked.

"Yes," Heath replied. Hadn't he just said that?

"Hasn't that been done to death already?" she asked.

Heath felt a little perplexed. What did it matter if the wonders of the world had been done before? Well, it _did_ matter, considering this could be the assignment that made or broke his future career as a travel journalist, but _still_. "It _is_ being written more in the style of a travel-log than one of those soggy info-articles you find in tourist brochures," Heath said, perhaps with a little more heat than he'd meant. This was _his_ future articles she was dissing, though.

"I see," she nodded.

Heath took this as assent to continue talking. "This means that one incredibly lucky reporter – that would be me –" He pointed at himself, just to make it perfectly clear, as if saying _'me'_ wasn't quite enough. "– Gets to spend the next seventy days travelling around the world adventuring and writing!" The smile at the end of his speech felt a little manic, even to him. It was difficult to keep a lid on his excitement though. This was it. This was his big chance. He would see the world in all its glory, and get to write _a series of feature articles_ to boot! This assignment was going to set him up for _life_! There was no way in _hell_ he was going back to the States to join the family business now! His father couldn't pressgang him into service if he couldn't find him – for the next seventy days, at least.

"That sounds wonderful for you," Weasley began, sounding just falsely sincere enough to irritate Heath. "But I don't see what this has to do with me." She glanced up Mr Silent Mountain expectantly.

"That's the request," Mr Silent Mountain rumbled.

"Excuse me?" Weasley asked with polite bemusement.

"The _Daily Prophet_ has requested an Auror to… accompany… their little reporter for the duration of the assignment." Heath took mild umbrage at being referred to as _little_ , but Dennis Creevey, the walking mountain was more qualified than most to call people that.

"The _Daily Prophet_ wants to hire a bodyguard?" Weasley asked incredulously.

"Hey! I don't need a bodyguard!" Heath interjected, feeling the need to defend himself. The dismissive look that Miss Weasley shot in his direction informed him that he need not have bothered.

"Not a bodyguard, Weasley." It appeared that Dennis Creevey of all people was going to come to Heath's wounded pride's rescue. "More as an extra pair of eyes, to keep each other safe."

"Why don't they send someone more qualified to handle dangerous situations on the assignment instead of this…" Weasley looked him up and down in dubious assessment. "… Person?"

"Because I'm the most qualified for the job," Heath said with a little pride. And he'd had to prove his mettle over the past three years through steadfast dedication. He'd given his life and soul to the paper, just so that maybe one day, they'd give him the chance to live his dream.

"Really? Then why do you need me along?" Weasley asked, her snide voice grating on his already irritated nerves.

"Listen, lady. I didn't _ask_ for them to get me a bodyguard, okay –" Heath snapped, but was interrupted by the talking mountain's booming voice.

"Weasley!" Heath jumped at the sound, and a moment of absolute silence descended over the near vicinity as other people were shocked into muteness at the sound of a frustrated mountain.

"Sir?" Weasley half-squeaked, half-whispered. The look she gave Dennis Creevey was one part fear, one part awe, and two parts respect.

"A word, if I may?" he said, more calmly, once again returning to his almost-indecipherable rumble.

"Of course, sir."

The two of them moved a little distance away, enough that Heath could not make out a single word that was being said between the two of them. Dennis Creevey's back was to him, so all he could hear was a low rumble, the sound resembling the beginnings of an avalanche more than human speech. He couldn't hear Molly Weasley at all, but he could see her. She was quite agitated, although she did a marvellous job of hiding it. It was obvious that she deeply respected her mountain of a boss, because eventually, despite many emphatic head shakes and opening of mouths to retort before prudently reconsidering, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

Heath let out the breath he'd been holding. The final approval for his assignment rested on cooperation from the Auror department, and _they'd_ only give the green light for it if someone was stupid enough to agree to go with him.

They made their way back to him, and once again, Molly Weasley gave him a death glare.

"She'll do it," Dennis Creevey said decisively.

"Great!" Heath said, injecting a brightness into his voice that he didn't quite feel. It was difficult to be bright and upbeat about your new travelling buddy when she was practically shooting _Avada Kedavra_ out of her eyeballs. "Here are all the details." Heath handed over a manila file containing all the paperwork. He hoped that it wouldn't get lost in amongst the rest of her hills of dead trees. "And I guess I'll see you in three days' time!"

Molly Weasley just glared harder in reply.

* * *

 **The quote "With great power comes great need to take a nap. Wake me up later" from the book** _ **The Last Olympian**_ **by Rick Riordan. The title of this chapter as well as the lyrics in the summary is from the song 'Counting Stars' by OneRepublic.**


	3. Uncharted

_I'm already out of foolproof ideas_

 _So don't ask me how_

 _To get started_

 _It's all uncharted_

* * *

There was someone singing. Loudly. And incredibly off-key. And not in English.

Molly sat rather awkwardly at the edge of the sofa seat, her backpack by her feet, and looked around the flat, whilst she tried to ignore the sound of an anguished man. Instead, she wondered what on this godforsaken planet had possessed her to agree to go on this crazy assignment.

Was it because Dennis Creevey, her supervisor and secret idol had asked? Probably.

Was it because she would be free of her loud and crazy family for the next seventy days? Probably.

Was it because she'd somehow convinced herself that _this_ was going to be the new beginning she'd been looking for? Probably.

Molly sighed and slumped into the cushion. It seemed as if Heath, the _complete_ stranger with whom she'd agreed to spend the next seventy days in rather intimate company, did not own a watch. He was late. And this was his flat. He managed to be late whilst still in his own Merlin-be-damned flat. This did not bode well for the duration of their journey together. She really disliked people who were _always_ running late.

"Sorry I'm late!" Heath stepped out of a dim doorway with a pack similar to hers slung on his back. The wonders of modern magic allowed them to travel quite light. She'd been assured by her Aunt Hermione that undetectable extension charms were a traveller's best friend.

"Are you ready to go?" Molly asked, standing up and brushing the creases out of her jeans. She'd packed and dressed comfortably, figuring that if there was going to be a chance of her having to wear the same pair of underwear for three days, she might as well do it in comfortable outerwear. She'd learnt that there was nothing like a short skirt and high heels to make you super aware of the state of your underwear on last year's annual Auror-in-training boot camp. She'd thought the need to complete the obstacle course in high heels and a short skirt was absurdly sexist, but you never knew what kind of situation you might come across in the field.

Heath nodded. "Just let me say goodbye to Raj."

She nodded in reply.

Heath went down a corridor and she heard him banging against what she assumed was the bathroom door.

"Oi! Celestina Warbeck!"

Mercifully, the singing finally stopped. The rest of the conversation was too muffled to follow so Molly decided to mentally go through the items in her backpack one last time.

Tent – check.

Socks and underwear – check.

First-aid kit – check.

Tampons, in case of no-magic emergency – check.

Insect repellent – double check.

Sunscreen – triple check.

"Ready!" Heath came back and gave her what he probably thought was a dazzling smile.

She scowled.

His grin faded into awkwardness. The clock on the wall ticked loudly without the dulcet tones of Raj the wannabe soprano.

She counted the ticks reach sixty. Heath continued to look at her, his expression inscrutable.

Molly's scowl deepened.

"Right! Well. We should be heading off now. Don't want to miss the train!" Whatever survey he'd been doing of her face seemed to be completed to his satisfaction. _Finally_.

"Lead the way," Molly replied.

* * *

"Our first stop is _Stonehenge_?" Molly asked a little incredulously.

Heath nodded. They were standing in line at the only magical ticket machine. Obviously, it was the longest line.

"That's only about a hundred miles out from here!" Whilst she didn't really _want_ to go on this stupid "adventure", she _had_ expected to venture out a little farther from home. Her grandparents lived in Wiltshire, for the love of Merlin's grey underpants!

Heath gave her a blank look, the artificial lighting glinting off the small silver stud in his right earlobe. "How far away is that, exactly?" he asked.

Molly looked at him in surprise as they shuffled forward a few steps. A dumpy woman wearing a cloak in the most lurid shade of green Molly had ever seen walked away from the ticket machine muttering to the ferret that was trotting beside her on a matching lurid green leash. "A hundred miles is a hundred miles," she replied.

Heath shrugged. "You may not have noticed, but I'm from the States. We use the metric system over there."

Now Molly was really confused. Her cousin Dominique had once dated a Muggle chef from Texas, and she'd confided that she only ever understood him when he mentioned "pounds" and "ounces".

"I thought you used the imperial system of measurement, like us," Molly said.

Heath shrugged again, as once more, they shuffled just a little closer to the elusive ticket machine. This time, a man in an expensively tailored three-piece suit limped away after having kicked the machine in frustration. Molly meanly hoped that he'd scuffed his Italian-leather shoe. "Wizards in the States started using the metric system almost as soon as Napoleon thought of it when he was on the toilet seat."

"How do you know he thought up the metric system on the toilet seat?"

"All the best ideas are thought up on the toilet seat."

Molly opened her mouth to argue the point further, whatever the point actually was by this… er, point, but it was finally their turn at the ticket machine.

Glancing around furtively, Heath took out his wand and gave the machine three quick jabs in the coin slot. The image on the screen flickered into a deep purple background. The Ministry of Magic 'M' was spinning in its little circle in the top left corner, and all the writing was in gold cursive.

"Merlin's gray boxers, is _nothing_ in this country straightforward?" Heath swore as he squinted to read the instructions on the screen.

"And this, coming from someone who drives on the wrong side of the road," Molly quipped. She found that she rather liked annoying her new partner. It was almost amusing watching him flounder.

"For your information, most of the world drives on the right side of the road."

Molly was glad that he was too engrossed in the flashing lights of the screen to notice her disgruntled expression.

* * *

"Okay, so we have to go to platform nine and three-quarters. You know where that is?" Heath asked. It had taken them a good long ten minutes to buy their two one-way tickets to the underground station at Amesbury, the closest town to Stonehenge.

"Of course I know where that is!" Molly replied.

At another of Heath's blank looks, she was reminded that Heath wasn't local.

"The train for school left from that platform," she explained.

"Warthogs, yeah?"

"Hogwarts."

"Right, whatever."

They walked casually towards platforms nine and ten in silence. "So… I heard the school has like, four really exclusive clubs, or something?" Heath asked by way of awkward conversation. Molly couldn't quite fathom why he was so interested.

"They're Houses, not clubs. The first years are Sorted into a House by the Hat on the first night of the school term."

"A hat?"

"The Sorting Hat."

"Does the hat talk, too?" Heath snickered at his own joke.

"No," Molly replied, offended. You didn't see _her_ making fun of his stupid school. Who went and built a school in a town known for persecuting witches, anyway?

He grinned.

"It sings."

The grin faded quite quickly after he realised she was being completely serious.

* * *

The train was eerily similar to the Hogwarts Express. Even the trolley lady looked the same. Molly almost jumped out of her skin when their compartment door slid open not five minutes into their forty-five minute train ride. Both Heath and the trolley lady gave her a strange look.

"Anything from the trolleys, dear?"

Molly shook her head, too flabbergasted to speak. She surreptitiously examined the lady as Heath made his purchase. No – just a close relative, like a sister, perhaps. Maybe the family was in the trolley lady business.

The trolley lady left and the door closed with a soft _click_. At least the doors never did that on the Express – they always _banged_.

Heath leaned into the upholstery with a contented sigh, a generous pile of chocolate frogs in his lap.

"You don't get travel sick, do you?" Molly asked, eyeing the pile of candy dubiously. She may be trained in first aid, but there was not a power on this earth that could make her clean up puke, even with magic.

Molly liked to think she had a strong stomach. She didn't faint at the sight of blood, nor did she really care if the room smelt of bat entrails. She liked sashimi, and there had been that one time when she'd had to pluck a chicken.

But vomit… was _gross_. She'd once shared a compartment with Henry Zhang on the train ride back home for Christmas all the way in first year. Little did she know that Henry Zhang, apparently like Heath, _adored_ chocolate frogs. He'd scoffed about fifteen of them in seven minutes.

And then precisely six minutes later, he'd thrown up _spectacularly_.

And Molly had thrown up _even more_ spectacularly about thirty seconds after that.

Henry Zhang and she avoided each other's company after that.

"No, why?" Heath asked, returning Molly to the present. He was stashing all but two of his frogs into one of the pockets of his bag.

Noticing Molly watching, he explained, "You don't get them anywhere else but Britain. I want to make 'em last."

"I see," Molly replied, even though she did not, in fact, see anything. She preferred chocolate cauldrons, herself. They didn't spontaneously leap away, and the mint ones bubbled pleasantly on your tongue.

They lapsed into a semi-awkward silence, where Heath savoured his two self-rationed chocolate frogs, and Molly watched him.

He wasn't exactly what came to mind when someone mentioned travel journalist. There was nothing rugged about him, aside from perhaps his comfortably worn boots and his khaki jacket. His jeans were well-worn, like hers, but were surprisingly clean and had no visible tears or holes. His t-shirt was a plain dark blue. His hair was dark brown, with just enough product in it to make people believe that there was no product at all. As if his _actual_ bed hair was anywhere near as stylish as that. It probably took him a good fifteen minutes to do his hair like that – it had always taken Johnny at least thirty minutes, and was the reason why he was perpetually running late. To someone like Molly, who spent no more than thirty seconds to tie her ridiculous hair out of her way, thirty minutes was twenty-nine minutes and thirty seconds too much to spend on your hair.

Molly looked closer at the stranger sitting across from her, now in the throes of rapture, having just bitten off the head of his second chocolate frog. His eyes, closed in apparent ecstasy at the moment, were the same colour as the world-famous-in-Britain Honeyduke's chocolate brick, Molly's favourite. His face was lean, like the rest of him. Molly imagined that he would've been quite gawky and gangly during his awkward phase. The image of Heath the Scarecrow brought a little quirk to her lips.

"What are you suddenly looking so happy about?" Heath asked suddenly, shattering Molly's little vindictive daydream. To be fair, he didn't deserve that, since it wasn't his fault that Dennis Creevey had cornered _her_ of all the Aurors-in-training into this bogus assignment.

Molly tried to school her errant thoughts. Thinking such negative things wasn't part of the Plan of New Beginnings to Kick-Start Molly Weasley's Life in the Right Direction.

The name still needed a little work.

"Nothing," Molly replied a little too quickly to sound completely innocent.

A beat of silence. "Stonehenge will be cool, I promise," he said, once again, quite suddenly. Molly wondered if this was the way he usually talked, or nerves were making him a little more excitable than usual. Either way, she hoped he'd start talking like a normal person soon – keeping up with all his tangential conversations was exhausting.

"You promise?" She raised an eyebrow, punctuating her question. "Have you ever been before that you can make sure of that?"

"No…" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "But I've heard that it's run by this really cool organisation – they even allow wizards to go _inside_ the structure."

"How… fascinating." Molly was a huge nerd by anyone's standard; she'd been raised to be that way practically from the cradle by her father. But even she couldn't get excited about a bunch of old stones out in the middle of nowhere. "Why are we going there, again? Aside from it being run by a cool organisation, of course," she added. She couldn't help the tinge of sarcasm that crept in.

Heath pouted. "Aside from the cool organisation?"

"Yes."

" _The Prophet_ wants me to."

Molly couldn't help but laugh. " _The Prophet wants_ you to? What does that mean?"

If possible, he pouted even more. "They wanted the first article to be on something local, and there really isn't much else in all of Great Britain and Ireland that they could find that could be classified as a 'great wonder'."

"I thought it was a travel magazine. Isn't it supposed to inspire people to _leave_ what they know behind?"

Heath raised his eyebrows. "Have you met your average witch or wizard? Do they strike you as the type to want to go bungee jumping?"

"What's bungee jumping?"

"Never mind. But seriously, witches and wizards are still stuck in the Middle Ages, for all the advancement we've had in sanitation and transportation since then."

Molly thought about this. She'd met plenty of people, even her own age, who were quite happy to spend the rest of their lives living in some tiny village in Surrey or whatever, Apparating into the Ministry at nine-o-clock to partake in the daily slog up the bureaucratic ladder of success, only to Disapparate at precisely five-o-clock, if only to do it all over the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

Even after all they'd been through as a society, from the bubonic plague, to widespread witch hunting, to the most evil person ever to exist since possibly the dawn of the dinosaurs, a trip down to a pile of stone as old as writing was probably incredibly exciting stuff.

No wonder she was expected to live out the same perfectly boring life as Agatha Painsley-Bumbershuffle.

"I see." And this time Molly did, in fact, see.

* * *

"Welcome to Stonehenge, dudes," the bloke standing in front of their little group of tourists had a bushy grey beard and was wearing a dark blue gown with yellow stars sewed on. When he walked, Molly noticed that he was rocking the ever-stylish combo of socks and sandals. "I'll be your guide today, but it is important for you to open your souls and let your spirits guide you to contentment."

It seemed that Heath's "very cool organisation" was a cross between Molly's crazy old Divination teacher and the fringe hippie movement that it was rumoured her own Granny Molly had been a part of.

She gave a significant look to Heath, who was sporting an expression of mild indigestion. "Very cool," she said.

"Shut up," he muttered, and they followed Socks and Sandals out and up into the autumn sunshine.

They came up above ground next to where an old wall used to encircle the structure that stood stark against its flat background. Despite herself, Molly became a little breathless at the sight of it, still standing resolute against the test of time.

"Can't the Muggles see us?" a nervous-looking man with a ferrety sort of nose asked. There were six of them in total, including Socks and Sandals.

Socks and Sandals shook his head. "We're inside the boundary that was established in the late 1970s, when The Order of the Star-Spangled Merlins first came to call this place their spiritual home."

"Sounds like the name of a really patriotic rock band my dad might've listened to when he was our age," Heath murmured next to Molly's ear. His warm breath tickled.

Molly valiantly suppressed an unexpected laugh.

"Quiet," she admonished. "Aren't you supposed to be writing this stuff down or something, for your article?"

He waved a little notepad and a self-inking quill in her face and winked, before once again turning his attention back to what Socks and Sandals was saying.

"The Muggles aren't allowed inside the boundary, and we're not allowed out," Socks and Sandals continued. "Of course, we have to figure out a way to cohabitate on equinoxes and solstices and such, but for most of the year, it's not a problem. Plenty of cosmic energy to go around."

Molly rolled her eyes as they traipsed closer to the circle of stones. She'd only taken NEWT-level Divination because her father had insisted that it could be useful in the future. She'd found it a rather useful time to take a well-deserved nap.

They reached the outer circle of stones. There was a subtle change in the air around them, but they all felt it. It had been windy out in the open, the crisp autumn breeze tugging at the wisps of hair that had become loose from Molly's ponytail, but here, inside the shadow of the mighty rocks, their colour like thunder and lightning, the air was a little stiller, the breeze a little less mischievous.

"We have entered the sacred space," Socks and Sandals said reverently.

Molly couldn't quite make herself roll her eyes.

They took their time walking around the concentric circles of ancient stone, quietly listening to Socks and Sandals slightly barmy explanations. Molly tuned out most of the things about "agriculture" and "ancient astronomical calendar" and "death rites".

As they slowly approached the grassy expanse in the centre of the Henge, the air became stiller and stiller. By the time they reached the centre of the circles of stones, the wind was all but gone. It caressed Molly's face as softly as a dream half-remembered in those few moments between asleep and awake, before the full dullness of reality came and slapped you in the face. Like those precious moments it served as a reminder of a different place, a different time, where the air was purer and the water sweeter.

"Molly." Heath had just murmured her name, but it was an unexpected enough sound to make Molly jump.

"What?" she snapped – quietly, still aware of where she was standing.

"You okay?" His voice was just as quiet as hers, laced with concern.

"I'm fine," she replied a little calmer, yet still unable to completely let go of her terseness.

It seemed that time operated differently at Stonehenge. They'd apparently been here for _hours,_ first down in the underground visitor centre, and then wandering the ruins of… whatever this place was. Twilight was fast approaching.

"We shall spend the night under the stars, like our Neolithic ancestors," Socks and Sandals intoned. The strange magic of the place was a little dented by the sounds of humanity once again domesticating a place almost wholly ruled by nature. In short order, they'd set up a campfire, and an elderly man dressed in mismatched tweeds and a sweater vest clearly knitted by his great-grandmother was now presiding over the communal stew pot, like some pagan goddess of food and abundance.

Molly sat down beside Heath, who was squinting through the shadows of the fire at his notebook.

"Anything good so far?" she asked conversationally.

Heath looked thoughtful. "Some things. I don't want this to be like all the other travel articles."

Molly nodded. "Maybe you could write about the strange effect this place has on people."

Heath turned to look at her face in confusion. "What strange effect?"

"Never mind."

"It's your totally rad aura, dude," Socks and Sandals' disembodied voice came to them from the void beyond the other side of the fire.

Heath yelped at the sound.

Socks and Sandals walked around the fire and knelt before Molly and Heath. "May I?" He reached out a hand, palm up, toward Molly.

It took her a moment to realise that he wanted her to give him her hand. "Oh, of course."

Socks and Sandals' grasp was cool and surprisingly soft. He probably moisturised after washing his hands with the same buttermilk and sandalwood lotion, specially imported from India, as her mother.

Either that or the cosmic energy of the universe was really good for your skin.

He clasped her hand in both of his and closed his eyes. "Your aura is like, totally ace," he said. The entire group leant in to hear his words.

Molly leant slightly away, feeling something disturbing stir in the pit of her stomach.

"It is clouded," Socks and Sandals continued. "You are lost… and confused… That's so screwby, dude."

If by screwby, he meant a little creeped out, then Molly was _beyond_ screwby. She'd only believed in Divination as far as to pass her exams. And even though she read her horoscope in _Witch Weekly_ , she didn't take it seriously.

Alright, she took it semi-seriously.

But this was _definitely_ beyond her level of belief.

Socks and Sandals wasn't done yet. "You're sweet wave is coming," he said. "The Dude with the Silver Dragon will be your partner on this soul-searching journey."

And then he promptly let go of Molly's hand. The building tension immediately snapped around the circle. There were a few watery chuckles, and Molly felt her face heat with embarrassment.

A quick glance in Heath's direction showed her that he wasn't even smiling.

* * *

"Heath! What the hell do you think you're doing?" They were standing next to a stick growing deep into the grass, which marked dead centre of Stonehenge.

"Weren't you listening to Beard and Sandals this afternoon?" Heath asked.

"No."

"Well, he said that one of the hypothesised uses for Stonehenge could have been as a sort of _connection_. There are heaps of these types of structures across the British Isles and Europe!"

"Do you mean like there's some sort of cultural connection?" Molly frowned in confusion. It was the middle of the night, and adventuring was turning out to be an exhausting business. Even though the ground was hard and the air was cold, all she wanted to do was cuddle up inside her sleeping bag and _sleep_.

"No – I mean like an _actual_ connection."

"What? Like a portkey?"

"Quite like a portkey, dude." This time, both Molly and Heath yelped at the sound of Socks and Sandals' voice. For such an impressively dressed bloke, he sure did move quietly. "Except the portkey is like, the entire Stonehenge. Like I said this afternoon," Socks and Sandals shot Molly an admonishing look, and she felt inexplicably ashamed for tuning him out. "Stonehenge is connected to other similar structures across the land. They've been used since ancient times as a way of moving from one place to another. It's totally kamikaze."

"You mean to tell me that the great mystic Stonehenge is just some sort of ancient _train station_?" Molly asked incredulously. It was a little difficult to believe that a place where the very air felt old was just a prehistoric Kings Cross.

"The cosmic energy that connects us all is especially strong in this place, dude. The ancient dudes recognised this, and built a structure that uniquely channelled that cosmic energy, allowing them to move across great distances."

Both Molly and Heath stared at Socks and Sandals, mouths slightly agape. Who knew that Neolithic witches and wizards were so clued in?

"Does it still work?" Heath asked.

"Of course, dude!" Socks and Sandals looked affronted at the question. "Why do you think the Order of the Star-Spangled Merlins chose this as their spiritual base? It is one of our most sacred vows: to maintain the passage between two henges."

"Can we try it?" Heath asked eagerly.

"No!" Molly yelped. It was all well and good traipsing across the world, taking pretty pictures of busy tourist sites – that's what Molly had signed up for.

Using _Stonehenge_ as a transportation device was most decidedly not what she'd signed up for.

"Oh, come on!" Heath whined. "Why not?"

"Because – because!" Molly spluttered, looking around desperately for an excuse. "Because it's unsafe!"

"I assure you that it's completely safe," Socks and Sandals interjected. "You might not end up where you expected, but you'll definitely end up there in one piece. No one's been splinched since the 1950s!" he said cheerily.

"See?" Heath argued. "That's even safer than Apparating! What could possibly go wrong?"

"We could end up in the middle of nowhere?" Molly replied.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Because it _is_ a bad thing."

"Look, what's the worst that could happen? We end up someplace else in Britain?"

"Or we end up somewhere in Europe."

"Which is where we were going to go next anyway."

"You're insufferable."

"I prefer unstoppable."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Molly and Heath stood holding each other's hands over the stick in the mud, their backpacks settled securely over their shoulders.

"Are you ready, dudes?" Socks and Sandals asked.

"No," Molly muttered.

"Totally!" Heath said. The white light from the half-moon cast his face into manic relief. His dark brown eyes were glinting a little feverishly.

"Don't worry," Socks and Sandals said cheerily. "Your auras are strong. Open them to the great cosmic flow of energy and let them guide your path!" Easy for him to say – he wasn't about to attempt to use a prehistoric portkey to journey across the country, or worse, the Channel.

Socks and Sandals began waving his wand in an intricate pattern and chanting in what sounded like Celtic. Slowly, a white fog began to settle over them.

Molly unconsciously tightened her grip on Heath's hands. The increasingly dense fog began to muffle Socks and Sandals' chanting. Then the chanting stopped.

"Is that it?" Heath asked, sounding a little peeved. "Did it work? Are we there yet?"

"The transportation is about to begin," Socks and Sandals voice came to them muffled by the white fog. "Hang ten, dudes, and remember –"

His voice suddenly stopped.

All sound stopped.

All that was left was silence.

* * *

 **I haven't been to any of the places that Heath and Molly are going to go (except one), so I'm making a lot of this stuff up. I've tried to be as accurate as I can, but I've definitely taken a few liberties. Saying that, the oldest part of Stonehenge is as old as the first know form of writing, and it was built during Britain's Neolithic period. So yeah, Stonehenge is** _ **old**_ **.**

 **The title of this chapter, as well as the lyrics in the summary is from the song 'Uncharted' by Sara Bareilles**


	4. Take It Easy

_We may lose and we may win_

 _But we'll never be here again_

 _So open up I'm climbing in_

 _So take it easy_

* * *

Heath had never understood how silence could be deafening. The complete absence of sound should be an utter relief.

But the silence wasn't like that at all. No, the silence built, and _pushed_ , and it _hurt_. It was inside his ears, trying to get to his brain, trying to muffle out all thought, all sensation.

His only anchor was Molly's hands in his. It was the only thing stopping him from ripping his own skin off; he'd do almost anything to make the silence _stop_.

And then, it did.

And they were falling.

He wasn't sure if he was screaming, or Molly was screaming, or if it was both of them screaming together, but someone was _definitely_ screaming. Sweat was making Heath's hands slippery, and his hold on Molly was slipping, until it, like the silence, was gone.

* * *

Heath hit the ground hard. And he cried out in pain. Loudly.

"What is it?" he heard Molly's panicked voice from somewhere close by. At least she was here, with him. The transportation hadn't separated them. Despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, he felt relieved.

"Heath! What's wrong?" Her voice was even closer. Like, right beside him closer.

"It hurts," he panted out through the fog of agony that was settling over his mind.

"Where?" She sounded so calm and assuring. Must have been that Auror training. There was more to Molly Weasley than her ridiculous hair and grumpy mood and _totally rad_ aura.

"Don't know," Heath breathed out between laboured breaths. "Hurts… everywhere."

Gentle hands turned him over from his side to lie on his back. The same hands ran enquiringly, yet efficiently, over his head, face, shoulders, and arms – "Holy Merlin's hairy butt!" Fresh pain blossomed where she touched him, and he couldn't help the expletive.

"It's your arm," Molly's tone was brisk, and businesslike.

"That's nice," Heath said his eyes clutched tightly in pain. He could feel the skin on his face pulled taut with the effort it took to keep the whimpers down. And – _bloody hell –_ the back of his eyes pricked with the premonition of tears.

"It's broken."

It would be just so _unmanly_ of him to start crying, especially if it was just a broken arm.

"But don't worry, I can fix it."

Don't. Cry. Don't. Cry. Don't. Cry.

He heard some shuffling, and then the hard tip of Molly's wand jabbed him in his right elbow joint.

"Ow!" he cried out, more in surprise than in pain. Things couldn't actually hurt more than they already did.

" _Brackium Emendo!_ " Molly intoned, completely ignoring Heath's discomfort. There was a loud _crack_ , and for a brief, excruciating moment, it hurt ten times more.

Apparently, Heath had been dead wrong. Things _definitely_ could hurt more than they already did.

"Ow!" he cried out again.

Still, Molly ignored him. "The bone's mended, so the pain should begin to ease in just a moment."

Heath opened his mouth to retort that no, he didn't think that the bone was mended at all, because his bloody arm hurt even more than it did before she went around jabbing sticks at it and muttering arcane spells that she _obviously_ had no idea how to use – but then… the pain began to ease.

Heath let out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and with the expelled air, some more of the pain left his body.

"Take some deep breaths, Heath," Molly's voice was soft, but still businesslike. She was still playing nurse.

"I'm okay," Heath said on his third deep breath out. In. Out.

"Can you sit up?"

In. Out. In. Out.

"Heath?"

In. Out. In. Out.

"Heath!"

In… Out…

* * *

There was something sharp digging into his lower back. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second thing he noticed was the stars. He'd never seen so many in his life. They were –

"Oh, good. You're awake," Molly's perpetually slightly grumpy voice brought him away from the stars and crashing back to earth – this time, thankfully metaphorically.

"What… what happened?" his words came out scratchily from his parched throat.

"You passed out." Molly came over to sit beside him and handed him his water bottle once he'd sat up and chucked the rock that had been digging into his back away.

He guzzled at the bottle, more than half the contents dribbling down his chin and into his sticky t-shirt. The half-dried sweat would have been uncomfortable if the night had not been so cool.

"Passed out?" He asked, having slurped up every last drop of water in that bottle.

"Yes." Her red hair _actually_ looked like it was on fire, backlit as it was by a real fire behind her. She'd apparently set up camp whilst she'd waited for him to come to.

Heath cleared his throat. He felt a little embarrassed at having fainted. After all, it had just been a broken arm. And what was worse, it had been a fixed broken arm. He stared intently at the fire rather than at her as he asked his next question. "For how long?"

"No more than an hour," Molly replied, getting up from where she knelt beside him and making her way to the campfire. With a swish of her wand, a kettle floated out of the flames, and with another swish, it began to pour itself into the two mugs that floated beside it. Another swish, and the kettle returned to its fiery abode.

Molly plucked the two mugs out of the air and came back to sit beside him, handing him one of the mugs.

"What's this?" he asked, sniffing it suspiciously.

"Tea," she replied, blowing gently on the contents of her mug. "I hope you don't mind Earl Grey."

"Tea?" Heath asked, amused despite his lingering embarrassment. "The British cure for all ills?"

"If you Americans hadn't thrown yours in the harbour, you'd know," she replied, taking a sip from her mug. Heath couldn't be quite sure, but he thought he saw her hide a small grin into her cup.

Heath looked down dubiously at the contents of his cup, and took a tentative sip. The fragrant steam wafted into his face, and he was surprised at how calming that was. Like a flash sauna.

"It's good!" he said.

This time, she _definitely_ hid a smile, Heath was sure of it. "No need to sound so surprised." And she _definitely_ didn't sound grumpy – or at least, not as grumpy as usual.

They sat together, side by side, in almost comfortable silence, staring into the merrily dancing flames, and drinking their tea.

"Thank you," Heath murmured once he'd finished the contents of his mug.

"For the tea? You're welcome," Molly replied.

Heath glanced over at her. She was sitting in the grass, her mug wrapped in her palms, looking more relaxed than he'd ever seen her. Not that their acquaintance was a particularly long one, but still. Even when they'd been at Stonehenge the afternoon before, walking through the ruins, there had been this… tension in her. Her spine was always so rigid, and her brows were always furrowed.

"No," Heath corrected. "I mean, yes, thank you for the tea as well, but I meant about my arm. Thank you for fixing my arm."

"You're welcome."

That was it? Was this more of that British reserve? Merlin save him from the infamous British reserve.

"Where… where did you learn that?" he asked.

She shrugged, waving her wand again. The kettle floated towards them out of the flames. Molly held out her mug and the kettle poured itself as she spoke, "All the trainees are taught basic first aid. Fixing broken bones is a pretty standard thing."

"But it's not exactly _easy_ fixing a broken bone, is it?" Heath pushed.

"It's not exactly _easy_ becoming an Auror. More tea?"

"Yes, please." He held out his mug for the floating kettle. "But still. You didn't even hesitate. And nothing went wrong."

"Well, I _was_ top of my class." She looked at him sidelong, her mouth twitching in an attempt to hide her grin. "And besides, it's my job, isn't it? That's why I'm here. I look out for you."

"And I look out for you," Heath replied. "And I apparently suck at doing that, because I haven't even asked if you're okay!"

She didn't bother hiding her smile this time. "I'm fine."

"Really?" Heath raised his eyebrows dubiously. "You landed okay? No injuries? No residual side-effects from the transportation?"

She shook her head, no.

"Not even a bruised knee?" He felt a little peeved. Here he was, having broken his arm and passed out, and here _she_ was, completely fine! Where was the justice in that?

"Auror trainee, remember? We're taught how to fall properly."

"Fall properly?"

"Yes, and if you decide to use anymore ancient transportation devices on the less-than-trustworthy advice of a guy who thinks it's alright to wear socks and sandals, maybe I'll even teach you how to do it."

Heath frowned. "We're okay, aren't we?"

"For the most part. We just don't know where the hell we are."

"What?" It must have been some aftereffect of his fainting, but he was certain that Molly had just said that she didn't know where they were.

"We don't know where we are."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, alright. We're in a field, and there's grass, and there are a bunch of stones around us, but other than that, I have no idea where we are." Heath looked at Molly closely. She didn't appear to be very concerned by this.

"You don't look very concerned by this," Heath said suspiciously. This was not at all like her. She should be frantic. He looked down at his half-full mug. Maybe there was something in the tea. He sure felt relaxed.

Molly shrugged. "I am concerned, but we can't really do anything until morning. I've set up a protective perimeter, so we should be safe here for the rest of the night. Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to say _I told you so!_ "

"How is any of this my fault?" he cried at the indignity.

"You're the idiot who _wanted_ to use Stonehenge to take us to Merlin-knows-where! Did you even stop to think for even a second why we don't use a collection of rocks as a means of transportation anymore?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it. Of course Heath hadn't. He'd been too caught up in the moment. The lure of the mystic and arcane had been too strong. When Molly had mentioned that Stonehenge had had a weird effect on her, Heath had been confused. He didn't feel any different.

But he'd been lying to himself. Listening to Beard and Sandals talk about how people used to use the place as a giant portkey had sparked something in him. Something that wasn't entirely part of his consciousness had whispered to him, _do it_.

 _Do it._

 _Do it._

And so, Heath had done it. He'd been goaded by an old pile of rock into doing one of the stupidest things imaginable.

He didn't regret it for a minute.

The knowledge that he, Heath, had travelled the same way as a people long gone was a little heady. Sure, he'd broken his arm. Sure, he'd passed out. Sure, they didn't know where they were. But they were alive, and thanks to Molly, safe for the moment. In his opinion, the pros far outweighed the cons in this situation.

Heath sighed. "There's no point arguing about it now. What's done is done."

The look on Molly's face said that she didn't agree, but when she opened her mouth to speak, all she said was, "We should get some sleep. You need the rest."

Heath nodded, and they moved to opposite ends of the fire to get out their sleeping bags.

The last thought Heath had before sleep took him was that his dream was finally coming true. He'd finally found adventure.

* * *

"Where do you think we are?" Heath asked. They'd woken up early the next morning, and after a quick breakfast and even more tea, they'd packed up camp, and upon Molly's insistence, removed every trace of them ever having been there. Heath wondered if his travelling companion was a little paranoid, or if it was just her training. He hoped it was the latter. He didn't know how well he could handle paranoia when they'd be going to a new place practically every single day.

"If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't be walking toward this unknown village right now."

"Unknown village? It looks pretty decent to me."

"Decent or not, it is still unknown."

"Are you always this paranoid?"

"It's caution, not paranoia."

"It sounds like paranoia to me."

"Of course it would." Molly gave a derisive snort.

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?" Heath asked heatedly.

"You _are_ the one who blindly believed a guy who didn't even trim his beard that Stonehenge would work as a portkey."

"Are you ever going to let me live that one down?" He asked, exasperated. "And like I keep saying, it _worked_."

"That's hardly the point! Merlin knows what could have happened to us! We were lucky that you only broke a bone! We could have died! Or worse!" Molly's increasing agitation made her voice rise and her arm-waving to become more dangerous with every sentence.

"What's worse than dying?" Heath asked.

Molly opened her mouth to retort, then closed it abruptly. "I don't know," she said through gritted teeth after a moment. "But I'm sure there's something."

They'd walked toward a collection of buildings they could see from their campsite. They'd passed more rocks standing in straight lines than Heath cared to count. It had all been a little creepy, but Molly had barely even glanced in their direction. Heath had quickly taken a few photographs before hurrying on. Now, they stood in front of a sign that proclaimed the name of the village.

The sign read _Bienvenue à Carnac_.

"What does _that_ mean?" Heath asked.

Molly looked over at him in surprise. "You don't speak French?"

"I learnt Spanish at school."

"Salem's taught Spanish?"

"Along with Latin and Ancient Runes. They thought it was important to learn a language that wasn't dead. You know French?" They were still standing in front of the sign, probably looking like complete idiots, and having this conversation.

"One of my aunts is French, and I used to spend a lot of time over at their house when I was younger." She looked a little embarrassed whilst saying this, and Heath got the distinct impression that there was more to the story than she was making out to be. "I can speak enough to hold half a conversation."

They both turned to look back at the sign.

"So… do you know where Carnac is?" Heath asked after a few moments spent awkwardly contemplating the plain sign.

"No, but there must be a visitors' centre somewhere around here. Those rocks out there seemed like a pretty big deal."

They headed into the village.

* * *

All the buildings were made of the same stone as the rock soldiers they'd walked passed out in the fields. Some of them were plastered and whitewashed, but most were barefaced. From the way the few people who were outside so early in the morning dressed, the village was almost certainly completely muggle. There must have been wizards somewhere, but they were all, typically, in hiding.

"That way looks promising," Molly pointed to a door with a little sign over it, proclaiming things in even more French. Since the sign didn't contain the handful of words that Heath knew, such as _baguette_ , _croissant_ , and _bouillabaisse_ , he was at a complete loss as to what was beyond that door.

"Why there?" he asked.

"Well, first off, I just saw a guy wearing the ugliest Hawaiian shirt I have ever seen go in there, so he's probably a tourist. And second, the sign says 'Visitor Information'."

"Oh. Well. Then that's probably what we're looking for."

They stepped into the dim interior. Heath looked around, feeling a little lost. There were boards mounted on the stone walls, and a giant scale model of the village in the middle of the room. The Hawaiian shirt guy Molly had mentioned was looking with interest at it. Aside from him and them, there was no one in the room.

"That map seems promising," Molly pointed to one across the room. They made their way around the scale model, Heath going one way, and Molly the other.

"We're in the northwest of France," Molly murmured. "Brittany, to be exact." Her fingers traced the marked features of the region as she stared intently at it. It seemed to Heath that she believed that this map held all the answers to their current problems. All he could fathom from it was that there were a lot of dots marking other towns and cities in the region. Not that exciting.

"We only just made it across the English Channel, then. Lucky thing we didn't land in the ocean!" His pathetic attempt was met with typically, a glare. He took this as his cue to leave.

He wandered off to another wall-mounted display. This one exalted the virtues of Carnac's major tourist attractions. There were the old stones… and the night life... and – "Hey! They have beaches here! We should go!" Heath exclaimed.

Molly looked over at him and gave him another glare. "Does the middle of autumn strike you as perfect beach weather?" she asked.

He made a face. "I don't want to go frolicking in the waves, just get a few photographs and a couple of words for my article. I already have some of the stones we passed on the way this morning, so we don't need to go back to those creepy things."

"At this rate, we might just have to. I still haven't figured out how to get out of this place."

"I'm sure you'll find a way! I have complete faith in you."

"That's reassuring." Molly rolled her eyes, but he caught the quirk of her lips as she turned back to scrutinise her map.

Heath wandered over to the next board, and took out his notebook. Flipping to a clean page, he wrote at the top: _Carnac_ , and began taking notes from the board.

The place was called Garnag in Breton… it had nice beaches… it was surrounded by the largest collection of monolithic structures in the world… they were called the Carnac stones… this had been where they'd camped for the night… and where he'd learnt that Molly made excellent tea… which really had nothing to do with his article at all.

He shook his head, and scratched out that last dot point.

Heath spent the next half-hour walking around the dim room, writing anything of interest down. You never knew what might come in handy when the time came to write his first article. He was _definitely_ writing about Beard and Sandals and his wacky Order of the Star Spangled Merlins, and that Stonehenge was an ancient portkey. He'd probably have to include a warning though, saying that you might end up in the middle of Brittany beside a pile of stones older than Stonehenge with a broken arm and have to spend your night drinking Earl Gray. At least Carnac had nice beaches. It would be a lovely place to visit during the summer.

"I think I've figured out how to get out of here," Molly said coming up beside him and startling him out of his concentration.

"Ah!" he yelped. He really needed to stop all of this yelping. This was the third time he'd done it in the past two days. It was _very_ unmanly.

Molly raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah? How?" Heath asked, his heartbeat once again back to normal.

"We'll have to do it the Muggle way, I'm afraid. We don't have a license to Apparate outside of Great Britain and Ireland, and I don't want to risk being hauled into a foreign ministry for something as stupid as illegal Apparition."

Heath nodded. "So what do we do?"

Molly pulled him back to the map where they'd first started. "We're here." She pointed to a dot labelled 'Carnac'. "There's a bus that runs to Auray." She pointed to another dot northeast of Carnac. "That's the closest train station that operates all the time. "It's not far – if we want, we could actually walk it, if you wanted to take photographs of the area or something. It's only about seven and a half miles."

"Er… how much is that, exactly?"

Molly frowned for a moment, and then said, "Twelve kilometres."

"You… worked that out in your head?"

"Yes." She looked up at him strangely.

"That's…"

"I'm good at mathematics."

"Top of your Arithmancy class in school, too?" he asked with a smirk.

"Shut up." She turned back to her map. "Now, we could spend a day or two in Auray if you like – it's a port, so there must be a couple of interesting things around. There's a train that runs to Paris from Auray. It _is_ a Muggle train, obviously, but it's better than nothing. I'm sure that once we get to Paris, we can figure out how to get to Italy with relative ease. I'm assuming you'd want to spend a couple of days in Paris as well? I know there's not any of your 'great wonders' there, but Paris is Paris, yes?"

Heath stood in surprised silence.

"Heath?" Molly asked when he didn't respond. "Heath? Are you alright? Does your arm still hurt?"

"Uh… no, no!" Heath finally found his voice. "It's just that…" He cleared his throat and tried again, "You worked all of this out in… half an hour?"

Molly looked around. "Of course. It would have taken me less time, but everything's in French, so it took me a little while to figure out what the words actually _meant_. And they randomly throw in Breton, just to throw you off –"

"That's amazing," Heath interrupted.

It was Molly's turn to be surprised. "I… I beg your pardon?"

"That's amazing. I'd never have been able to figure out what to do."

Molly frowned. "You'd have done _something_. How would you know how to leave?"

He shrugged. "Probably wandered around for a bit, maybe bumped into someone who could help, then take it from there."

"And that works for you, does it?" she asked dubiously.

He shrugged again. "Has until now."

Molly shook her head. "Well, since you're with me now, we're going to have plans, and backup plans, and fail-safes –"

"Is this you being paranoid again?" Heath asked, now feeling amused rather than peeved at her preparedness. Whilst it wasn't the way he rolled, he definitely understood the merit of having someone like Molly around. Beneath all that caution was someone who was always ready for any situation.

"There's nothing wrong with being prepared," she replied, sniffing. " _Especially_ since you seem quite willing to just wander willy-nilly –"

"Excuse me but, _willy-nilly_?"

"Yes, _willy-nilly_."

Heath couldn't help but laugh at her expression of anger. There were sparks almost literally coming out of her eyeballs and her lips were pulled into a flat line. She was just so easy to rile up.

"What?" she asked. When he didn't stop laughing she whacked him on the arm.

"Oh, Molly," he sighed, after having got his laughter under control.

"What?"

"I bet you've already worked out the best way to get down to the beach, too?"

"Of course."

Heath smiled as they headed out of the visitors' center.

 _Of course_.

* * *

 **I haven't been to Carnac, or anywhere in Brittany, but I'm assured that it's a lovely place. The Carnac Stones are real, and they really are the largest collection of monoliths in the world, predating the oldest part of Stonehenge by about a hundred years. I have no idea about the visitors' centre though – I made that place up completely, but Carnac is well-known for its beaches.**

 **The title of the chapter as well as the lyrics in the summary is from the song 'Take It Easy' by The Eagles.**


	5. Cups

_"Run!"_

As Molly hotfooted it down the cobbled street, she had just enough breath to wonder how she'd ended up here. Where in her life had she gone wrong that Dennis Creevey was compelled to figuratively chain her to a bloody American tourist for the foreseeable future? This most _definitely_ had not been part of the neatly bulleted ten year plan she'd drawn up for herself at age twelve.

(No, that plan had included things like "kiss a boy at the Eiffel Tower", and "become President of the world".)

A large and sweaty hand clasped around her own, throwing off her precisely timed pumping. Oh, great. Now the stupid git had the audacity to mess with her running technique, honed over the past three years to be the most efficient for her body. Just the _nerve_ of some people.

A cart filled to brimming with desiccated frogs' legs (it was unclear whether they were for culinary or alchemical use) careened into her line of sight. With reflexes honed on the Quidditch pitch for six years at Hogwarts, and then a further two during Auror training, Molly made a slight adjustment to her trajectory, correcting for the dead weight that was her bloody American, and swerved neatly into a fortuitously placed alley.

Barely slowing down at the wooden crates and a surprisingly large number of banana peels strewn like so much confetti over the squelchy stones, she skipped and dodged through them all. Her attached American did his best to keep up, although he couldn't help bumping his shins (and muttering curses) into the rotting wood. She swerved right again, gradually correcting her height to one which would be the perfect balance between not being seen hiding between a dumpster and the dead end, and optimal spine alignment.

The American was not nearly as efficient as she, going from a stately six feet, to the Hunchback of Notre Dame at an alarming pace.

Heath's pants were harsh and loud in the confines of their hidey hole, the sounds of angry French merchants a dull crescendo in the background as they all paused just at the entranceway to their alley, yelling obscenities _en Français_ and gesticulating wildly, also _en Français_.

Molly closed her eyes as she tried to catch her breath in a quieter fashion, and did something that would shock those who knew her: she prayed to her dead uncle.

It was strange how that in times of need, Molly Weasley, the most well-behaved and prudish of the Potter-Weasley clan, turned to the spirit of dearly departed Fred Weasley for help. She'd decided at a very young age that asking Santa or some mystical person who wore voluminous robes of white was a waste of time. But alas, she was still human; she still needed to believe in _something_ , needed someone to call upon in times of need. Fred Weasley had seemed like a good choice at the time: he was family, had lived through mischief _of his own making_ , and died an honourable and brave death.

 _Please_ , she thought, tilting her head slightly upwards. _Please._

For the next several heartbeats, nothing happened. The French men and women kept on yelling, the American kept on breathing too loudly, and Molly still found herself crouched behind a dumpster, her adrenaline running high.

But several heartbeats after the first lot, the American's breathing became quieter. A few more heartbeats later, the mob of disgruntled shopkeepers dispersed.

Unfortunately, she was still huddled behind a dumpster. Oh, well. You couldn't have it all.

"Thanks," Heath said. In amongst the filth and detritus, his large body was pushed up close against hers. Their backs were flush against the brick wall, their bodies flush against each other from shoulder to hip to knee. Molly's other side was wedged into the rusty metal of the dumpster, and Heath's was crammed into the mossy corner where the two walls were sealed at right angles with each other.

"After we're done with this trip, I'm going to kill you," Molly replied, shifting a little so that she wasn't quite so squashed. Her booted foot squished through something organic and rotting, and the sickly sweet smell of decay washed over them anew. She grimaced against the smell, and settled back into immobility once more.

"You're going to wait until the assignment is over?" Heath asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "You're too sweet."

"Don't mistake me for sweet, Heath. I'm contractually bound to keep you alive and well for the duration of our travels." And alive and well she would keep him, even if it killed _her_ in the process. She was an almost-Auror, soon to take a vow to uphold the law and protect those under her care. And amongst her many titles of _prude_ , and _stick-in-the-mud_ , and _spoilsport_ , was the one about which she cared the most: _loyal_. She never missed an appointment, never broke a promise. And she wasn't going to bloody well start because of some upstart _American_.

She caught him rolling his eyes from her peripheral vision. "Even though you've just told me that you're planning my murder, my gratitude still stands. If it weren't for you, the citizens of l'Avenue de Merveilles may have been buying Heath-flavoured _wurst_ from that butcher."

"That's German," Molly replied.

"What?"

" _Wurst_ is German for sausage. It's _saucisse_ in French."

Heath turned to face her, a frown pulling his eyebrows down towards his nose. "You speak German, too?"

Molly shook her head. "No, but I know the name of the food that is practically their national identity."

His frown deepened. "I thought that was Oktoberfest."

Heath may have had a point. "That's beside the point. You're welcome, though." Although she wasn't quite sure that she deserved the thanks. All she'd done was yell _"Run!"_ and then sprinted away into the chaos that was Paris' version of Diagon Alley. "What did you do, by the way?"

Heath tried to wave his hand in a dismissive way, but finding that both were still very firmly lodged, he settled on bobbing his head around as a poor substitute. "Oh, it was nothing, really. The idiot took offence at _my_ offence at the exorbitant price of a postcard. Naturally, the argument devolved quickly from 'you Americans!' to how we stole the Statue of Liberty from them. Honestly, it was _gifted_ to us! Do you think the French could have won their silly civil war without the help of us trusty Americans? The nerve!"

Molly sighed. "I don't even know where to begin with that, but I'm going to settle with _we were running for our lives because of a postcard dispute_?"

Heath had the decency to look ashamed. "I'm sorry. Things just got… out of hand."

"Out of hand? _Out of hand?_ "

In response to her ire, he tried to shove himself farther into his corner.

Her breath came hard and fast, the air sharp in her nose as she built up steam. "You know, this is our fourth day in Paris, and I woke up this morning thinking to myself 'maybe today Heath won't try to get us deported'. But no, you just can't help yourself can you? If it's not that dumb mime at the Arc de Triomph, then it's the security guard at the Louvre! But no, you don't even draw the line at the natives. You got into an argument with _a fellow American tourist_ at the Notre Dame yesterday! An American! Tourist! In a _church_! Have you no shame?"

"I have shame," Heath mumbled, avoiding her gaze. Somehow, he managed to wedge himself even further into the corner. Hopefully, he'd get stuck, but because of her stupid _ethics_ she'd have to save his sorry arse. Merlin, she really hated having a strong moral code sometimes.

"And let's not forget about the fight you got into with the ducks yesterday!" They'd been following the Seine as it gurgled through the city, stopping periodically to take pretty pictures, and then somehow they were on a bank, where the grass was struggling to survive against the choking weeds and healthy sprinkling of cigarette butts. And _then_ Heath started fighting with the ducks. And _then_ Molly found herself sprinting away from a flock of angry ducks, Heath not far behind, his ever-present camera clutched in one hand, despite the fact that he had the strap around his neck.

"First of all, they weren't ducks, they were _geese_. Second, you've obviously never been attacked by geese because you'd know that they're vicious little buggers who'd rather peck out your eyes in your sleep than – " At this point, Heath cast around for a fitting comparison for the geese from hell. "– than eat breadcrumbs from benevolent humans."

"No one wants to eat breadcrumbs unless you're using them to make your oven-baked items crunchy!"

"Or crumbed chicken."

"Who even _likes_ crumbed chicken?" Through the cooling haze of anger, Molly did realise that the argument had veered completely and utterly off-topic, but _really_. Fighting with mimes and geese, and now a lover of crumbed chicken? People like Heath just didn't exist in the real world.

Molly's shoulders slumped as the last of the adrenaline left her system, leaving her with a dry mouth and a hollowness in her abdomen. "Let's just head home for the afternoon," Molly suggested.

Heath craned his neck, trying to see over the top of the dumpster without moving out of his cramped position.

"You can lean forward, you know," Molly noted. "It's easier on your spine."

"I knew that," he muttered, following her sage advice. "Just testing." He spent a few moments squinting at the now-quiet mouth of the alley, the denizens of l'Avenue de Merveilles having quickly forgotten the excitement of a few moments before in favour of the bargain sales on black market truffles.

"The coast is clear," he stage whispered, before wriggling out of their hiding space, jostling Molly further into the cold embrace of the dumpster to her left.

Molly grimaced and rolled her eyes, slowly rising from her crouch to step out beside him. The coast, indeed, was clear. Still, they were cautious entering the flow of the magical marketplace once more, careful to keep their heads down and avoid eye contact. At least, Molly was. Heath, having quickly forgotten the danger of engaging people with whom he did not share a common language, was much more cavalier.

Molly sighed again, but when no more people brandishing wands and pitchforks came towards her at alarming speeds, she relaxed, and once more took in the marvel of being in a foreign land.

The street was quite similar in design to Diagon Alley, although it was straight, despite being built on a steep incline. But the ground was still cobbled, and the people were still bustling around here and there like busy worker bees, interested in nothing but the task at hand. Of course, all the signs were in French, as was all the chatter, but every now and again, she caught a bit of English, and what sounded like Arabic and Chinese thrown into the mix. There were more alleys like the ones that Molly and Heath had just hidden in, little more than places to throw the rubbish, as well as slightly larger streets, where more specialised wares were sold, along with what she assumed were homes, going by the lines of washing hung out to dry from first- and second-floor balconies.

They traipsed their way down the hill, trying not to slip and roll. The flash of Heath's camera was lost amongst the general hustle and bustle of the place, no one paying mind to two gawking tourists, packs on their backs, and sturdy boots on their feet.

A simple line was all there was to cross back into the Muggle side of Montmartre. Once, before some medieval fire ravaged it, a small theatre had disguised the entrance to the witchcraft and wizardry that went on beyond. But it was long gone, with only a commemorative plaque embedded in the pavement, and decorated with chewing gum and even more cigarette butts marking the place where it had once stood. Clearly, the citizens of Paris didn't find the loss of a magic theatre too great a tragedy.

"I wish we could Apparate," Heath sighed, adjusting the strap of his backpack as they made their way to the hostel at which they were staying. It was a little place about fifteen minutes' away from l'Avenue de Merveilles, and catered exclusively to magic folk, thank Merlin. Molly didn't know what she'd do if she'd had to hide the fact that she was a witch on top of keeping Heath alive.

"I looked into it while you were lost in the gardens at Versailles," Molly said, scowling in true London fashion at the idiot who had the temerity to knock into her as she walked.

Heath frowned. "Where were _you_ during that time?"

"Oh, I had another wander through the castle. Read all the information on the plaques, pushed a little old lady over the rope in the king's bedroom, flirted with the barista in the café to get a free refill."

Heath's eyebrows flew up his forehead in incredulity. "First, only nerds read all the plaques in museums, especially when they're all in French. Second, and _you_ gave _me_ flack for fighting with everyone? At least I didn't push an old lady!"

"She pushed me first," Molly mumbled in her defence. And besides, it wasn't as if anyone had _noticed_ her pushing the diminutive woman – the woman herself included.

"And third, you _flirted_? To get _free coffee_?"

Molly shrugged. "Why else do people flirt if not to get things?"

"I didn't even know you could flirt!"

"Just because I've never flirted with you!"

"Exactly!"

Molly rolled her eyes. "That's because you don't have anything I want."

Heath's incredulity morphed into shock. "You're so… mercenary."

Molly nodded. "Remember that when I smother you in your sleep. It'll make you feel better in your final moments."

Heath's mouth dropped open.

Once again, the conversation had become out of hand. "Anyway, Apparating."

Heath clamped his mouth shut, swallowed, and nodded silently for her to continue. She was inordinately pleased to see the lingering fear in his eyes – that line about smothering someone in their sleep _never_ worked at the Burrow.

"Basically, it's not worth it."

"How come?"

"Apparating licenses aren't centralised, even in Europe, so we'd need to apply for a tourist permit in each country. It's just not viable for the actual time we're in each place. I mean, in Peru we have to go apply in person at the Ministry, pass the test, and then wait six months for our request to be processed."

 _"Six months?"_

"Oh, that's with the standard bribes. We can get it fast-tracked to three months if we take the gold package."

"And if we pay no bribes?"

"Three years, if the stars align in our favour."

"So no Apparating licenses for us."

Molly nodded. "Indeed."

"Salem's balls!"

"Isn't the idea of this to experience travelling in all of its entirety?" Molly said. She was rather enjoying all the Muggle transport and walking around, despite vengeful mimes and geese. It was sometimes even more efficient than the Wizarding way, what with the lines for the Floo network at the Ministry being longer than Dumbledore's beard during rush hour.

"You're right," Heath sighed. " _Of course_ you're right. It's still a bit annoying though. We wouldn't have had to hide behind a dumpster if we could just Disapparate."

"We wouldn't have had to hide behind a dumpster if you hadn't argued with someone over the price of a postcard."

"Fair point."

* * *

"We're going out," Heath announced. Dusk was slipping into night outside the window of one of the common rooms at the hostel, and Molly was rather settled into a large winged armchair by the crackling fire.

"Can't we just open a bottle of cheap wine and talk about Quidditch?" Molly asked half-seriously. She was completely serious about the cheap wine, and completely joking about Quidditch. It would be better if they didn't talk at all.

"No, we cannot do that," Heath answered.

"Why? Do you have a problem with cheap wine? Or Quidditch?"

"No."

"Then _why_?"

"Because we're twenty-somethings in the City of Love, and we're leaving tomorrow morning for Italy, and…"

"And?" Molly prompted.

"No, that's it. So. We're going out."

Molly frowned. She should've known this was coming. Unsurprisingly, Molly was an introvert. Her lifestyle as an overachieving, stick-in-the-mud, know-it-all helped with that. A good time could be had with pouring a little firewhiskey into your cup of Earl Grey and reading a racy romance novel. No pulsating lights, or loud music, or _other people_ required.

"Clubs and bars aren't really my scene," Molly said.

Heath rolled his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?"

She scowled at him. "You go ahead. If you're not back by six tomorrow morning, I'll come find you."

"Six? Our train doesn't leave until eleven!"

"I'll need some time to narrow down the search parameters. I can't just very well use _Accio_ to bring you back."

"Narrow down the…" Heath trailed off in wonder. "You know what? Never mind. It'd be better if you just came with me. No narrowing of search parameters required that way."

Molly bit her lip, eyeing the merry fire with longing.

"It'll be fun! And we'll only visit a few places, and be back by two."

"Promise?" Molly asked.

"Promise!" Heath repeated.

* * *

At one minute past two in the morning, Molly found herself at her seventh bar for the night. She wasn't quite tipsy enough to forgive Heath for breaking his promise to be back at the hostel by two, but there was _definitely_ enough alcohol in her system that she could appreciate the novelty of a secret Wizarding bar in between the first and second levels of the Eiffel Tower. The lights on the behemoth metal structure were all the illumination they required to set the mood. Oh, and the alcohol of course. Couldn't forget the alcohol.

"Heath," Molly asked, tugging on his arm as Heath signalled the bartender for some groovy, glow-in-the-dark concoctions. "Am I really drunk, or are there no walls?"

Heath's lips quirked as he placed a few coins on the bench and grabbed their drinks. "Both."

"Oh." She threaded her arm through his as he guided them to an empty table near a non-existent wall. All that was between her and certain death was the criss-crossing metal beams. "Am I going to die here?"

Heath's smirk became a full-blown grin. "I doubt it. The perimeter is spelled so it's like there are walls there. And there's temperature control, and noise-cancellation of course, along with all the standard hide-the-wizards-from-the-Muggles mumbo jumbo."

She took a cautious sip of the glowing blue liquid that Heath had placed in front of her. "I see."

Heath said nothing, but took a sip of his own glowing (pink) liquid, not quite managing to hide his smirk.

"I'm not that drunk, you know." The drink was cool in her mouth like a mouthwash, but left the familiar dull burn of alcohol down her throat. She took another sip.

"If you say so." Heath flicked his eyes over the patrons of the establishment. She followed his gaze across the room. For all that this place was in the middle of a national monument, the people were rather subdued. It seemed like this was the place to come to recover after a long night on the town. She saw as many butterbeers on tables as she did harder drinks. If Molly had been more sober, she would've noted that it might have been better to just go home to a nice hot cup of peppermint tea instead. Since she wasn't, she just shrugged and returned her attention to her drink.

"What's this called?" She asked.

"Bioluminescence."

Aptly named. She took a gulp. "Is it because I kissed Claire at Haricots Verts? Or was it Haricots Bleus?" She frowned. To be perfectly honest, after the third bar, they'd all started to blur together.

"You didn't kiss Claire. You made out with Claire. At a bar. Near the bathrooms."

"It was the only private place we could find. And it's called _snogging_."

Heath scrunched his nose. "That sounds gross."

"But do you think I'm drunk because I kissed a girl? I _like_ kissing girls, I'll have you know!" Or at least she had, before getting together with Johnny in Hogwarts. This was her first foray into the wild habitat of single people since her anticlimactic breakup with the twat, so she wasn't sure if she still liked all the things she had when she was seventeen. Was knowing if someone flossed regularly still important for her to know before she kissed them? After all, she hadn't asked Claire if she flossed every night before locking lips…

"I like kissing girls too, so I completely understand where you're coming from," Heath replied. "It's more the fact that you were kissing someone you'd just met. You don't strike me as the type."

She wasn't the type. Even having had just the one relationship, serious or otherwise, she knew she wasn't the sort. Hell, it had taken her a good ten months before she'd felt comfortable enough with Johnny to do things that involved open mouths and tongue. It had been another six before they reached second base. But Heath didn't need to know that.

"You don't know me!" Molly cried, taking another fortifying gulp of her blue drink. She eyed Heath's pink one and wondered if it tasted different from hers. And more importantly, if he'd let her try some.

"Then there's also the smiling at strangers, being more open than usual, and saying things that would make an angst-riddled teenager proud."

"Open? I'm not open! I'm closed! More closed than the Shrieking Shack!"

"I have no idea what that is, but it sounds like a place where you'd get scammed."

He was right, (about her being _that_ drunk, as well as the Shrieking Shack) but there was no way in hell she was admitting that. She went to take another gulp of her deep-sea concoction, only to find her glass empty.

"I think it's time we headed home," Heath said, throwing back the remnants of his own bioluminescence and standing up. "We don't want to miss our train tomorrow!"

He steadied her with one hand, as he helped her into her dragon-leather jacket with the other. "Who cares?" she muttered. "We're already late."

Heath tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and manoevered her to the exit. "We'll be on time. Promise."

* * *

Obviously, they missed the train.


End file.
